


Conference

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Birmingham, Coffee, Drama, F/M, London, Misunderstandings, No series 4 spoilers, Reader is Mycroft's PA, UK politics references, cuteness, pillows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 15:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9332348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: Going to Birmingham for the 2016 Conservative Party Conference proves to be more interesting than you could have ever thought.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, thanks for all your support. :)  
> This was written before Series 4 so no spoilers here. :)  
> I hope you enjoy it. :)

**Friday September 30th 2016**

 

Once more Mycroft Holmes has come to the 221B sitting room to ask something of his brother and once more Sherlock is making an utter nuisance of himself. 

 

“I won’t ask you again Sherlock. Put that down and answer me. Will you do it?” Mycroft queries, stabbing the point of his umbrella into the floor as he stands there with his feet grounded. He’s in a dark suit, white shirt and blue tie with silver tie-pin. Not a strand of his auburn hair is out of place and as usual his fluctuating weight has already drawn comment from his younger sibling. 

 

Sherlock in his usual armchair, purple shirt and black trousers scrapes the bow across his violin one final time for good measure, before he puts both it and the instrument on the side table. “I don’t see why you need me to keep an eye on things in the first place,” Sherlock pouts, looking down. His tousled dark hair threatens to cover his eyes. 

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath. “As I have already told you I will be leaving for the Conservative Party Conference tomorrow,” he says. “After the Brexit vote and with things the way that they are it is imperative that I am there. So, as I will be in Birmingham I just want you to make sure that this other trifle doesn’t get out of hand. You know that you are best placed to do it.”

 

“Am I?” Sherlock breathes out disbelievingly; folding one leg over the other, before he changes his mind and uncrosses them again. Mycroft raises his eyebrows at him. “I would have thought that you’d have enough CCTV and minions in place that you wouldn't need me?” he says with a sniff. 

 

“If you’re going to be childish about it then I shall have to enforce those other things and hope that they alone will be enough,” Mycroft says, twirling around with a disappointed sigh and clutching at his umbrella even tighter. 

 

“Yes, that’s right, go and re-join your little shadow,” Sherlock drawls, getting up and walking to the window. Out of it he can see you standing by one of his brother’s usual black cars, one knee bent and phone in hand. You’re thirty-five and though your h/c hair is neatly in place over your shoulders the colour of your e/c eyes looks a little more faded than they had when he’d first met you as a twenty-one-year-old. He turns back around again. 

 

Mycroft’s brow furrows and he looks over his shoulder. He turns around properly when he sees the expression that’s on his brother’s face. There’s something bitter there that needs examining. As do his brother’s eyes, which glide to the side as soon as he looks at him. Once he’s taken him in more Mycroft says, “Could it be that you’re jealous brother mine just because I have an assistant who’s loyal to me and who doesn’t run off to get married?” 

 

A muscle tenses in Sherlock’s jaw. _“Is_ she loyal to you though?” he ponders, turning back around to the window. Your eyes roam back down to your phone as soon as you catch sight of him and you seem to be suppressing a yawn. “I just see someone who’s sullen and bored. Someone who might carry on looking for something better if you don’t change her mind.”

 

“Nonsense,” Mycroft says dismissively as Sherlock whirls around to look at him with raised eyebrows, “Miss L/N’s been in my employment for fourteen years and I’ve been given no reason to suspect that will change. Now, if it’s all the same to you then I'm going to take my leave since you won’t help me.”

 

Sherlock shrugs as if to tell him to be his guest. Mycroft departs and Sherlock turns back to the window again. He watches as Mycroft and you react to each other with a sort of brusque ease that’s come about because of your familiarity with one another. As soon as he exits the door you nod and slide into the car. Mycroft follows after you. The encounter is so professional and yet Sherlock, as he always can when his brother comes around with you in tow is able to see the way that things could be and the way that it doesn’t seem to have occurred to either Mycroft or you to behave. You’re both as dense as each other he thinks. “Oh, don’t worry brother dear,” he says, “I’ll help you.”

 

*

 

“Is everything all right sir?” you ask when you catch Mycroft looking at you for the fourth time. It’s early that following afternoon and you’re both sat next to each other in the back of the black car as it whizzes up the motorway towards Birmingham. You’re in a smart black jacket and trousers with a white blouse and you’ve been trying to answer some queries about work via your phone, tapping out your responses. Mycroft’s been talking on his mobile a couple of times, his tone becoming a rumbling one on occasion to exert his authority, but more often than not he’s been brooding in a thoughtful silence. You’re used to such moods by now, but usually they don’t involve him looking at you, which is why the suspicious side of you has been provoked. 

 

“Hm,” Mycroft says in an uncommitted fashion, before he turns his head to look out the window. He’s wearing an expensive dark suit, crisp white shirt and black and blue diamond patterned tie with silver tie-pin. You stare at him with narrowed eyes for a moment. But when you can’t come up with a decent explanation inside your head for what his latest thoughts might be about you go back to your typing. You can’t know that ever since his brother’s words about you the previous day he’s been wondering if there’s any truth to them. He’s tried to push away the possibility each time, telling himself that you’re fine, you have everything you could need-a good wage at the end of each month, all the latest phone upgrades and a promising pension to look forward to. There’d be no reason for you to go now. But for some reason the idea that you might and that you’re not happy keeps niggling away at him, eating away at those common sense thoughts. It’s like that feeling you have when you’re not quite seeing everything, but you don’t know what you’re missing. It’s rare that he gets it and it frustrates him. 

 

Such a thing lingers in the back of his mind still when the car pulls up outside the impressive silver tower that is the Hyatt Regency Hotel and the both of you enter it, wheeling your black cases behind you. 

 

The hotel’s reception reminds you of an old-fashioned bank with its white pillars, grey outline of squares on a marble floor, dark wooden desks that have delicate black vases of white flowers upon them and black railings, which lead you up to it all. 

 

Mycroft and you weave your way up to the check-in desk and allow your cases to sit on the floor as you wait behind a couple of tall men in suits with dark, short hair who are waiting for the receptionist to carry out her task. She’s got her black hair up in a ponytail and is wearing glasses to assist her as she sorts something out on the computer. The men look over their shoulder at Mycroft and exchange a nod with him. They don’t look at your face at all, but your body gets an appraisal. You frown. You've gotten used to a lot of things in your fourteen years service, but this ignorance and general sexist way of people looking at you is still something that annoys you. You swallow and your fingers scrape against the pocket that your phone is in, but you don’t make to get it out again. You look away, not noticing the half-glance that Mycroft gives you. The background chatter of people fills up your ears until you block out even that as the suits move aside and Mycroft and you step forwards, pulling your cases with you, before you let go of them once more. 

 

“There should be two Regency suites under the name of Holmes reserved for us,” you say, before the receptionist can even welcome you. Stopping idle pleasantries from occurring is something that you’ve gotten good at in your line of work. Mycroft hates them. He currently stands beside you in a Grim Reaper fashion with a slightly sinister tight smile upon his lips.

 

The receptionist nods, before, half-bent she goes back to her computer. She taps at a few buttons and her expression lights up momentarily, before it falls again. She looks up and her gaze darts in between the pair of you. “Um, I'm afraid that we only have one Regency suite under that name.”

 

Mycroft turns his head sharply to you, his breath tight in his throat. He feels alarmed by this latest development. 

 

You feel baffled. You look from the receptionist up to Mycroft. “I booked another one. I know I did,” you tell him.

 

Mycroft looks at you steadily for a moment. As he does so he’s wondering if Sherlock had been right and the fact is that you’ve gotten sloppy in your work because you desire something else? This mistake would certainly point to the idea of all not being well with you. He can see the certainty lingering in your eyes however so he decides to give you the benefit of the doubt. He leans forwards and places his fingers on the edge of the polished desk. “Check again,” he commands the receptionist without even a ‘Please,’ in sight.

 

She stares up at him for a moment, chews on her lip, reminds herself that the customer is always right and nods, going back out of the system, before she re-enters it again. She looks up a moment later and both Mycroft and you can tell what the answer is just by looking at her. “It’s exactly the same result I'm afraid,” she informs you. 

 

Mycroft’s heart sinks as he looks at you. You’re looking at him levelly and he doesn’t know what to do. Usually you’re so efficient. He’s never had this problem before, but it’s clear that after the receptionist has checked twice it must be a problem at your end and not with her. He swallows. His stomach feels uneasy about the fact that he’s encountered such a thing just the day after Sherlock had almost given him a warning of sorts about you. He snaps his head back towards the receptionist. “Can you get us another suite?” he asks. 

 

“I'm afraid that they’re all fully booked sir.”

 

“Another room then?” he persists, pushing himself up off the desk and looking all the more irritated. His mind is trying to think clearly about you and the receptionist is getting in the way. 

 

“They’re all gone. We've got a lot of people staying here at the moment sir. I'm afraid that the hotel’s full,” she says. 

 

Mycroft draws himself up and looks deep in thought. You wait, feeling tentative as you half look in between him and the receptionist who looks equally as apprehensive as you. You feel like you’re both waiting there with bated breath. Finally Mycroft’s face clears and he announces, “I’ll have a word with my colleague and then we’ll get back to you.” He turns on his heel and goes off into a corner, pulling his case with him. You follow after him, taking your own. “Right, well we can’t ask for someone else to be removed from their room,” Mycroft says, looking at you, but finding it suddenly hard to in his confusion. He seems to be getting something else now from your face and he doesn’t like it. “The hotel is full of people attending the conference and even a backbencher would no doubt kick up a fuss.” He pauses. “It is vital that my position remains secure. I am sure that I do not have to remind you of that.” There’s a bit of an edge to his tone. You’d been a person he felt he could trust once, but now he’s not so sure. 

 

“No sir,” you shake your head at him, before you suggest, “I could stay in another hotel? There’s bound to be one close by.”

 

It's Mycroft’s turn to shake his head now. “No. I need you near me,” he mutters irritably, feeling like you should already know such a thing and more annoyed with you for even suggesting it. He looks off to the side of you for a moment and thinks. “There’s only one solution. We’ll have to share that suite,” he says. You open your mouth, both horrified and shocked by the prospect, but before you can say anything more he’s pushed past you, knocked against your shoulder and gone back to the reception desk. “Can we have the key for that one suite then please and check in properly?” he asks the receptionist. 

 

She looks in between Mycroft and you for a moment as you re-join your boss. “Of course sir,” she says crisply, before she nods. “We’re very glad that you’re still staying with us and I apologize for the earlier confusion.” Mycroft waves a hand. The receptionist looks at you and you give her a look back that tells her that she better get on with it unless she wants your boss to get angry again. She swallows, finishes processing your details and hands Mycroft the key. Mycroft takes it and barely casts you a glance as he turns and strides past you. He’s so confused about you right now that he needs to increase the distance between you and do something to get this energy that’s swirling around inside him out. Thinking that taking the stairs might help to exert it and get things clearer in his head he makes for them. Feeling surprised, for usually Mycroft would take the lift, especially when pulling a case behind him, you follow after him. As you do so you notice that he seems to build himself up into a rage. His steps get clunky and his breaths become short, sharp puffs. It’s like following after a bull and you feel apprehensive by the time you’ve finally gone down corridor after corridor and gotten to your suite. Mycroft clears his throat loudly as you stop beside him, before he inserts the key into the lock and pushes the door ajar. He still hasn’t had enough time to think about it all. 

 

The space is large, fifty-six square meters in fact, but that still doesn’t feel enough right now. You take little notice of the lengthy living area with its floor to ceiling windows at the far end, a desk and chair just in front of that, a grey armchair with matching footrest just opposite with a TV and small shelving space on the wall adjacent, nor to the settee, coffee table, lamps on circular tables either side of the settee and the black and white photographs, which show four scenes of Birmingham above it. Rather you just follow Mycroft to the bedroom, which has a king-size bed with white duvet, desk space directly opposite with a blue stool to sit on, another TV affixed to the wall and a black lamp and chair, which are beside the cream curtains to the left. A wardrobe and some shelving space lay just inside the door. The bed has a photo of a canal over it, but it is not that, that you find yourself looking at, but rather Mycroft who lets out a huff as he deposits his case by the side of the bed. He leans the umbrella up against it and puts his hands on his hips as he faces the floor to ceiling window. You hesitate by the door for a moment, your hand still curled around the handle of your case, watching, _waiting._

 

Finally Mycroft says, “It would have been nice if you could have admitted your mistake back there.” He lets go of his hips with a flourish and turns back to you now. You open your mouth. “Instead of just being stubborn and acting as if you were in the right.” You can’t know that he’s lashing out in fear of the change that you might be bringing upon him. He’s had you by his side for fourteen years. He’d thought you loyal and dependable and now that he might be losing you for goodness knows what reason he doesn’t know what to do about it. All he knows is that right now he feels angry at you for doing this to him. Angry that when he’d thought he was giving you everything you’ve now put him in this situation where he’s not the one who’s in control any more. 

 

“Sir I didn't make a mistake,” you persist. 

 

“Well you must have,” Mycroft ventures with a wave of his hand, “How else would you explain what just happened?”-

 

_“Sir”-_

 

He huffs out a breath. “I could have really done without you playing up this weekend F/N. You know how busy things are probably going to be. Though why you had to do it-?”

 

“Why I had to do it?” you exclaim heatedly. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ Mycroft says in an affronted fashion. 

 

“No.” You point a finger at him. “I didn't do this and you should know that by now, but I would have had every right to if I had.” Mycroft opens his mouth. “I don’t think you realize just how much I do for you already,” you tell him. “Fourteen years,” you pant, “Fourteen years I’ve grafted for you. Fourteen years of fetching tea, coffee and let’s not forget all the cake that you needed on your bad days.” You wag your finger at him. Mycroft’s face turns puce and he shifts his position, so that he becomes more grounded. He really does not need you picking on his weight issues right now and he feels appalled at your nerve. It’s as if there’s been a traitor in his midst all along, waiting to strike. “Fourteen years of filing and spread sheeting, of talking on the phone and smiling as I did the most mundane of tasks”- 

 

“Tasks that you get paid for,” Mycroft says dangerously as if you should desist in the quest that you are currently pursuing. 

 

 _“Oh,_ I might get paid,” you breathe, your eyes dark and finger still in the air, “But I don’t get treated with respect, which should be a human right and not even an issue here.” You swipe your hand down. “I don’t get one look of gratitude from you. You complain, but you don’t seem to have any idea of what I’ve given up for you. Proper friends, a family of my own, a _relationship.”_ Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. “My parents hardly ever see me. They think that I’ve abandoned them. The truth is that I have. All for Queen and country. All for you and so that I can bring you coffee that you never even thank me for. I’d like to see you cope without me”-

 

“I assure you that you’re not irreplaceable Miss. L/N,” Mycroft says in that same tone of warning, “I would advise you not to think yourself so important in the future.” 

 

“Oh, but I am,” you say. Your finger lifts again. Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Just how long would you be able to cope without me? Be able to cope with all the extra minutes that fetching a coffee for yourself would take up every day? Now, on top of all that, you’re telling me that you want to blame me for what’s happened here today when you damn well know that I don’t lie to you and that you of all people can trust me?!”

 

“If you’re so unhappy with the way I treat you,” Mycroft says, pulling at his tie agitatedly and making it loosen as he arches his head forwards, for up until now he’d been of the belief that he’d been treating you with respect and a polite decorum, which the situation called for, “Then I suggest that you resign and find a more fulfilling job. That’s why you probably did all this in the first place.” He’s had enough now and quite frankly if that’s the way you want to behave then he doesn’t want you working for him any more.

 

You stare at him feeling hurt. Does he really think so little of you? It’s true that your heart’s been pining a bit for something else lately, something more fulfilling in your private life. True that you’d vaguely started looking at job adverts in a casual fashion, but you’ve damn well put in as much effort as you always do at work and given him absolutely no reason to doubt you. _“Fine!"_ you finally blurt out, unable to stand even being in the same room as him any more. “I will! This will be my last week!” Mycroft opens his mouth, but thinking that you know what he’s about to say you go on, “Oh don’t go worrying your pretty little head about doing a nice reference for me. I couldn't care about that any more than I could give a damn about giving you proper notice right now. I’ve had enough!” Feeling angry and incensed you half-turn, let out a growl of frustration when you see that your case is blocking your exit to the door and pull it around, violently swinging it at him. He takes two hurried steps back in order to dodge it and looks at you in shock. The case crashes onto the floor sending the lid clicking open to reveal a pile of your underwear that are on top of your clothes. Mycroft looks at them in alarm for a moment, like a little boy afraid of catching germs from a girl, before his gaze goes back to you. You let out a ‘Humph,’ of indignation, swivel on your heel and march out of there. Mycroft hears the main door of the suite shutting behind you a moment later. 

 

For a minute he just stands there not knowing what to do. Things seem to be unravelling so quickly in the one area that he’d thought would always be a reliable one that he can’t keep up with them. He grasps at his forehead and gives it two quick rubs. He really doesn’t need this. You acting like a stubborn child to rival his brother. His hands slide into his pockets, making fists around the fabric as he turns back to face the window. He takes two hurried steps towards it and lets out a sigh when he sees you blustering back towards the canal. The sky is darkening. A sudden burst of anger hits him. You’re so foolish! Not only for going out in a strange city as the night approaches with little care, but for talking to him in such a manner and for proving his brother right. How dare you say such things and let him down in this way! He releases another breath and curses when he notices that its started to drizzle. You've gone off in a mood without a coat and it’s bad enough that it now looks like he’ll have to find a replacement for you after this week without you getting ill on him too. He pictures you sneezing and struggling to control a runny nose during your stay here and a grumble rises up inside him. He can’t have you spreading your germs everywhere, not now that you’ll be staying in such close proximity to one another in the hotel. He turns around and grabs at his umbrella. He takes a couple of steps forwards, before he stops again in front of your open case. Tentatively, and after a furtive look around, he gives its contents one lingering gaze, before he flips the lid back over it. But the image of the lacy white bra that had been visibly prominent to him fails to leave his mind as he scurries out of the suite. He’d never imagined you in anything so feminine before. In actual fact he’d never spent any time looking at you as a woman and thinking about everything that you might have sacrificed for him. Never thought of your hobbies or interests beyond what he’d gleamed from his first initial look; let alone what lurks beneath your clothes. It’s only now, as he remembers your angry words and the feeling of missing something that he himself had felt, that he’s getting the sense that he should have thought of those things already. At least some of them anyway. He clears his throat. 

 

*

 

You've no sooner let out a ferocious swear word at the rain, whilst you sit there bad-temperedly on a black bench by the canal when you suddenly feel a presence. You hear a tapping coming from above you and when you realize that you’re no longer getting wet you look up. Mycroft’s snuck up behind you and is now holding his umbrella above you. 

 

“It’s raining,” he states the obvious. 

 

 _“No?_ Really? I had no idea,” you tell him sarcastically.

 

He looks at you reproachfully. “Don’t push things F/N.”

 

“ ‘Don’t push things?’ I can’t believe that you’d think I’d mess about with the hotel rooms just to be childish.” You fold your arms bitterly. 

 

“If you feel let down by me then I feel equally as let down by you,” he says gravely, pushing his damp hair away from his face. He still holds the umbrella above you. You look at him. “I feel disappointed about your mistake and the way you spoke to me just now.”

 

“There you go again.” You stand up. Mycroft makes a sound of irritation in his throat, before he adjusts the umbrella so that it still covers you. You put your hands on your hips and blow the hair out of your mouth. “Why would I have done it when it makes my situation more difficult too?” you ask. 

 

Mycroft looks at you levelly for a moment. “Perhaps you decided that it would be worth it for the hassle it would cause me?”

 

You look off to the side. It’s odd, but you feel like something’s trembling inside your very core because you feel so indignant. “I can’t believe you’d treat me this way after fourteen years. Some thank you for my service that is.” You look at him one last time with tears pricking at your eyes. His lips part. You shake your head. “Get that thing away from me.” You push at the umbrella half-heartedly. Then you head back to the hotel. 

 

Mycroft stares after you. But when a raindrop splashes on his nose he comes back to life again. Blinking and absent-mindedly covering himself with the umbrella he follows you at a distance. 

 

When he gets back to the door of the suite it is to find that you’re standing there opposite it against the wall. You’re tapping at it impatiently with your fingers. 

 

Feeling flustered and a tad uncertain because he’s never had to deal with this kind of situation before he rakes a hand through his ruffled hair and looks between the door and you. “Right.” He takes the key out of his pocket and fumbles with it, before he unlocks the door. 

 

You push past him as soon as it’s open and stride into the bedroom. Mycroft follows you and sees that you’re now taking up the blue stool by the desk, sitting there sideways and facing the window like some disgruntled bird of prey. He watches from the door as your finger does a pirouette on the edge of the desk. He clears his throat and moves forwards, deciding that he might as well unpack and unfold his clothes since you’re clearly in no fit state to talk to him. He puts them neatly in the wardrobe and glances at you from time to time. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he try and talk to you? Or is your fourteen-year working relationship really over just like that? Still, you don’t seem like your mood’s improving so he stays quiet. He can’t know that as more and more time goes by you’re rapidly regretting your decision to quit because of how well the job pays. There’s no way you’re going to beg for it back though. You won’t stoop to that level. 

 

Mycroft dares to venture close enough to you after he’s switched the light on to close the curtains. Once he’s done so however he doesn’t move away again. Instead he lingers in front of you, shifting from foot to foot. You let out a sound of irritation at the way that he’s just blocked your view, both with the curtains and his body and try and look around him. The sight of the boring cream curtains is better than him right now. Seeing what you’re doing he says, “I’ll be going to get some food now. Would you care to join me?”

 

“No thank you,” you retort curtly, still craning your head to look around him. 

 

“Very well,” he bows his head. “That is your choice.” 

 

You feel like yelling at him that, that’s not a choice at all. Not when you can hardly stand the sight of him right now. But in the end you stay quiet. You see him out, before you finally unpack yourself and resume your place by the desk. It had felt strange to put your clothes next to Mycroft’s in the wardrobe and you’d made sure that there was a clear divider between them, but it feels nice to have a bit of a break from him all the same. You call for room service for yourself and eat a pleasant, but small meal by your perch in the remainder of the time, before Mycroft returns. 

 

“Ah,” he says as you duck out to put your now clean plate and crockery on the floor at the same time as you let him in, “You do realize that there’s an extra charge for room service don’t you?” he asks you. 

 

“I’ve made a note of it. It can go on my expenses,” you inform him, before you lead the way back into the bedroom. 

 

Mycroft follows you and slips a book out of his case. After one last furtive look at you he heads out into the living area to read it. 

 

You take up your place by the desk, absent-mindedly flicking through your phone, whilst your brain screams that you do not like this. You don’t want to make things worse, although how they could possibly get any more so you don’t know? More than that though you want your own space. You want to be able to think clearly about everything right now without Mycroft being so close and the noises that come from him shuffling about from time to time. Want to feel like you can breathe without having to worry about messing up at any moment and how you should play things as they progress? 

 

You’re still hunched up by the desk and feeling rather annoyed by it all when Mycroft returns a few hours later. 

 

“It’s quarter-past-one,” he informs you, “I was rather thinking that it would be a good idea to head to bed now.”

 

You have at least had enough chance to think about _that_ particular issue and now you say, “Yes,” a little distractedly, before you stand and say more decisively, “Since it’s more important for you to get a good night’s sleep than me, so that you can pay attention at the conference tomorrow I guess you can take the bed.” Your eyes meet his. Mycroft opens his mouth. _“Don’t,”_ you say, before he can even utter a word. “I’ll take the settee.” You make to go past him to your case. But before you can he grabs at your arm. You look at him. 

 

“I'm sure that we can come to some sort of agreement,” he says, letting go of you and looking around. 

 

“Sir really”-

 

“There’s no point in you being so stubborn about this F/N. You’ll need a comfortable sleep as much as I will if you’re going to perform your job adequately tomorrow.” He looks at you quickly, before he looks away again. He feels a little worried that you might start yelling at him because of his last remark. Might start accusing him of thinking that you perform below par. But when he catches you nodding grudgingly at him a moment later he feels a little more settled. An idea pops into his head and he goes across to the wardrobe. He tugs the spare pillows out from the bottom and lays them down like a wall lengthways on the bed. “That way we can still keep our privacy,” he says. 

 

“Yes sir,” you nod, feeling as pleased with the idea as you can do in the circumstances. 

 

Mycroft looks suddenly awkward and you don’t understand why until he says, “Oh, I think you can drop the ‘Sir,’ whilst we’re in here together don’t you?” A beat passes between you both. “Why don’t you call me ‘Mycroft’ instead?” You look at him tentatively because you can’t imagine calling him by his first name after fourteen years of calling him ‘Sir’ or ‘Mr. Holmes.’ He meets your gaze levelly. “Would you like to use the bathroom first?” he asks you. 

 

You shake your head. “I’ll use it second,” you tell him, before you question him more uncertainly, “As long as you promise not to look at me when I come out?”

 

“If you can equally keep to such a thing?” he asks. 

 

You observe him coolly. “It appears that we have a deal,” you say. 

 

“Yes,” he murmurs, “It seems that we do.” He goes to his case to fetch his bathroom things and the grey t-shirt that he’ll be changing into and makes for the door. The grey t-shirt surprises you a little. You’d never thought about what Mycroft might wear to bed, but you guess that if you had then you would have expected expensive, silk pyjamas or something. 

 

Before he can leave through it however you say, “I’ll wait by the window with my back turned.” He nods and swiftly walks out. 

 

You stare at the curtains stubbornly with folded arms as you wait for him to return. 

 

“I’ll just get into bed,” he announces upon doing so, clearing his throat. You jerk your head forwards. You hear some rustling noise as Mycroft slips inside and then some more again as he pulls the duvet cover back firmly over himself. “All right,” he says. 

 

You turn back around with your heart beating wildly. He’s on the left side with his head turned away from you. The duvet has been pulled right up to his chin. You clear your throat and almost skip a little hurriedly around to your case, keeping your back to him as you pull out your bathroom things and pyjamas, before you depart. 

 

You change into your grey pyjamas with white collar, buttons and trim and make use of the facilities quickly, but you linger inside the room uncertainly for a time, not wanting to go back to Mycroft and feel even more like you can’t breathe and think freely about everything. You turn around this way and that, catching yourself in the vast mirror that’s above the bath and adjusting your collar. You swallow and when you get an itch on your ankle you lift up your other foot and scratch at it, sending your pyjama trousers lifting. You hear a dry cough coming from the bedroom. Your heart jumps and your hands curl up automatically into fists. Knowing that Mycroft’s probably getting impatient and wanting to turn the light off so that he can get some sleep you swallow again. Finally you grab your bundle of clothes and make your way to the door.

 

You cross back towards the bedroom, your feet taking comfort from the soft grey carpet. When you come to the door it is to see that Mycroft is on his side and exactly as you’d left him with his hair peeking out of the top of the duvet, his eyes staring stubbornly at the wardrobe and his hand tucked beneath his cheek. You make a little sound to alert him of your presence and quickly put your clothes away, before you move around to the right hand side of the bed. Your feet almost dance upon the plush green carpet as you do so. You turn to the bed and your heart skips a beat in apprehension. Gingerly you pull the right side of the duvet back and slip inside. Mycroft shuffles a little closer to the edge of the bed as the mattress sinks down and his stomach churns with something uneasy. He can smell you. You seem to have put something on that smells distinctly of lavender along with whatever nightclothes that you’ve got on. Mycroft wriggles uncomfortably. This is wrong. He’s not supposed to know what you smell like when you come to bed. That type of ritual is supposed to be one that he’s oblivious to. He swallows. He feels the bed dip down again as you adjust. Feels one of the pillows tremble ominously behind him as it threatens to break the wall. Then he hears the slight thump of you as you roll away from him. 

 

“Shall I switch the light off?” you ask him, and your voice sounds so tired and soft that Mycroft can barely hear it. That is another thing that he’s not supposed to be hearing he thinks. Your voice in that way. 

 

“That would be nice,” he says, as casually as he can manage in the circumstances. As his voice comes out a little croaky he clears his throat at once. 

 

He hears the creak of the bed as you push against it with one hand and reach out with the other. He imagines your hand hovering in the air towards the lamp. Imagines how your skin might look underneath the lamp’s soft glow. “Goodnight,” you mumble. 

 

“Night F/N,” Mycroft murmurs, wondering what’s going on with him as the light goes off a moment later. He pushes closer to the side of the bed. It had all started because of Sherlock’s words yesterday he thinks, but it had only properly kicked in after how honest you’d been earlier. All this sudden thinking of you as a human being, as an actual woman with emotions that could be affected by him rather than just as a robotic employee. He wishes that he could go back to that time when he didn't think of you in such a way because that would be a lot easier than all of this. Easier than knowing what you smell like when you go to bed and easier than wondering what you’re wearing right now. Pyjamas presumably because of the season, but what colour? And why does knowing such a thing suddenly seem so desirable to his mind? He shifts about again in irritation. 

 

You can practically feel the thought bubbles rising up from Mycroft behind you like steam off a road on a hot day and wish that you could get rid of them and stem your own, so that you might be able to get some sleep. Its been a long time since you’ve slept with anybody. You’d been dating when you’d first started this job, but that had soon petered out because of your new work commitments. You’d tried to start other romances in the past, but none of them had lasted. You’d rather hoped that when you’d next slept with someone it would be because that had changed and you’d finally found someone who you could have a long-term relationship with. You hadn’t expected it to be Mycroft of all people. 

 

Between all those thoughts and trying not to make too much movement lest it disturb the wall of pillows the night is a restless, long one for both Mycroft and you. By the time you finally drift off to sleep it’s gone two o’ clock.

 

Mycroft is close to sleep himself when he hears a voice abruptly say, “Yes sir.” His eyes snap open and he lifts his head up. “No, four o’ clock. No, I'm afraid that Mr. Holmes can’t do three. Yes, I'm sure that will be fine,” he hears you say. Mycroft moves onto his back, his head still up. What are you blathering on about? His lips part. Might it be some sort of game designed to further show how hard done by you think you are? “Yes sir I’ve done that. I’ll fetch you your coffee,” you say as you go off again. Mycroft slowly shifts himself into a sitting up position. When his eyes adjust further to the dark he sees that you’re on your back and that your eyes are shut. You mumble another load of nonsense, somehow managing to look quite happy and efficient as you do so, before you roll away from him again. 

 

Mycroft lets out a bit of a sigh. Sleep talking. That’s another thing that he shouldn't know about you that he now does he thinks. It suddenly occurs to him that, that’s one thing that should probably be tested for in new PA’s as well as higher-up operatives. After all you’ve been included in some pretty important e-mails through him that you probably shouldn't have had access to and whilst your batch of current chatter seems harmless goodness knows what you’ve come out with on other nights. When you say something about ordering more stationary equipment in the next moment however he finds himself letting out a bit of a snort, before he can help himself. He shakes his head and rolls away from you, letting out a bit of a wistful sigh. This is all very odd and though he supposes that you sleep talking is more interesting than you snoring neither one of those things is exactly conducive to his rest right now. He irritably closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep, hoping that the world will have righted itself and feel less strange by tomorrow. 

 

*

 

You wake up a little after six to find that your hands are both close to your head as you lie there right on the edge of the bed. Sunlight is poring through the gaps in the curtains. It takes you a moment to remember where you are, but when it comes back to you your stomach feels tight and your mind instantly cluttered. You wonder if Mycroft’s up yet, but you think that you can hear his soft breathing coming from behind you. Sure enough when you sit up he’s still in bed and although you’d promised him that you wouldn't your eyes can’t help but drift to the arm of his that is now helping to pin the duvet to his body as he lies there sideways with his back turned to you. You can see the dark grey sleeve of his t-shirt, but it is the pale and freckled skin that really gets your attention, as well as his surprisingly well-muscled bicep. You’d never thought that beneath his suits there could be such an arm, never thought of such a thing at all really or that he’d have so many freckles and that the soft light of morning would make them all dance. It also makes his hair shine. You swallow and quickly look away again when you realize that you’re practically staring and not only that, but in admiration too. He’s your boss. Your head is being ridiculous for seeing such things. You must still be tired from yesterday’s emotions and all the travelling you think. You get out of bed, grab your clothes for now and hurry to the bathroom. 

 

*

 

When Mycroft wakes it takes him rolling over and knocking into one of the pillows for him to realize where he is and what had preceded the morning. He sits up with a jolt and finds to his relief that you’re already up. He dresses hurriedly in a dark grey and brown checked suit, brown waistcoat, dark tie with swifts on and a white shirt. He also affixes his pocket-watch to his waistcoat.

 

“Ah F/N,” he says when he strides out to see that you’re sitting at the desk in the living area with your silver laptop and black phone out in front of you, whilst the news plays on low in the background. You’re wearing an orange turtle-neck with smart, dark trousers. “Good morning.” 

 

“Morning,” you glance up, before you look down again. 

 

Mycroft frowns a little and hesitates in his next movement. Usually you’d look at him for a bit longer and be a bit more receptive. He can’t know that you’re feeling a little embarrassed about your outburst and that aside from being consciously aware of the fact that you’ll be out of a job soon you just want to forget all about it. Feeling like he’d appreciate you talking now though he tries to coax the conversation out of you when he asks, “Sleep well?”

 

You narrow your eyes at him because you’re unused to such hospitality. Mycroft shrugs as if to ask what is wrong with him enquiring about such a thing? You blow out a breath and lie, “Oh yes. You?” 

 

“Hm?” Mycroft says, distracted already. This time by the light that’s coming in from the window and making your hair appear as if its got a halo above it. It softens all your edges too. You really _do_ look nice- 

 

You roll your eyes. “You know if you’re going to try and be polite then you should probably follow it through by actually listening to my answer. I asked you if you’d slept well yourself?” 

 

To his credit he only looks a little annoyed by you telling him off. “I’ll bear that in mind,” he says dryly, before he draws himself up. “To answer your question yes. I slept quite well.” He slides his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment. He looks across at the wall. 

 

Again you roll your eyes. He really is hopeless and once more you can’t imagine how he’ll cope without you, but this time you feel a pang because of such a thing. That feeling of devastation and betrayal almost that you’d felt after what had happened yesterday comes back to you and once more you don’t understand why it had hit you quite so strongly and why the thought of leaving Mycroft now suddenly makes you feel so odd. You should have expected him to blame you and treat you in such a way you think. You could probably do a hundred years service and you’d still be unappreciated. “There’s some coffee or tea. I could get you some?” you ask, trying to distract yourself from such a feeling because you’re worried that if you carry on down the line you’re going then you’re going to do something else that you’ll regret. 

 

“Oh, I can do that,” he waves a hand vaguely. Suddenly something comes to him and he looks back at you. You swallow a little underneath the intensity of his gaze. He holds the eye contact for a moment, before he breaks it off with a bit of a smirk about his face and goes to bring the coffee things to the table with a bit of a bounce. 

 

You roll your eyes when he disappears momentarily back inside the bedroom to get the tub of coffee beans that he’d brought with him-he hates the hotel ones. You imagine that he’d carefully placed the tub in his case and wrapped it in a sock or something. It makes you smile for a moment. But then, feeling a bit uneasy about the sudden upbeat turn of his behaviour, especially after the way that things had kicked off between you yesterday, you ask, “Is there something wrong?”

 

He looks up at you from where he’d been pouring the coffee beans into a cup. _“Wrong?_ No.” He finishes making the coffee and sips at it in satisfaction, before he takes up the armchair and rests his feet upon the footrest. With his coffee in hand he elaborates, “Its just occurred to me that it’s a rather lucky thing that you don’t have a partner after all if you’re going to reveal all of my secrets in your sleep.” 

 

You feel an initial stab of pain at the prospect that he might be about to tell you off again, before your face grows panicked as you wonder what it was that you might have said. “Secrets sir?”

 

“Oh, I wouldn't worry," Mycroft says, "You didn't actually reveal any. I doubt terrorists are going to be interested in the amount of stationary that we have.” You flush a little, before you feel something else too. _Surprise._ Had he just joked with you? You forget about it in the next moment though for he lets out what initially comes off as being an out of place curse. He leans forward, deposits his cup on the floor and gets out his vibrating mobile phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. He curses again when he reads the text message. 

 

“Sir?” you ask. 

 

But Mycroft’s too focused on putting together what he’s just read. For the text from his brother had read: **Sleep well?** “Bugger.” He looks up again. You’re staring at him inquisitively, lips slightly parted, head tilted. He swallows. “It appears that I owe you an apology F/N,” he gets immediately to the point. You straighten your head and look at him. He’s never said sorry to you before and you want to make the most of it. “I’ve just had a text from my brother, which enlightened me to the fact that it must have been he who caused the upset to our rooms. Probably in one of his fits of boredom,” he forces a smile at you, feeling uneasy once more about what had taken place yesterday. 

 

“I told you,” you mutter, your expression growing dark. 

 

“As I have said I am most sorry,” he says, rearranging his face into a sincere expression. “It was wrong of me to make such an assumption, especially after, like you said, all the years of service that you have given me.” You nod as if you’re still reserving judgement about whether you should forgive him or not. “I didn't have much to go on,” he attempts, “Though with Sherlock as a brother one should always expect the unexpected.” 

 

You smile a little at that and your mood softens towards him again without being able to help it. 

 

Neither of you talk about the answer, which would come out of the question: _Why had Sherlock done what he had?_ For even when bored Sherlock always seems to have a purpose, even if it’s just destroying the wall to get attention. You both prefer to just think of it as a mere prank. 

 

*

 

The morning passes fairly pleasantly after that one moment of awkwardness. You do the bits and pieces of work that you can and which most need doing with your laptop and after disappearing briefly for breakfast Mycroft talks on the phone. At nine you watch Prime Minister Theresa May’s appearance on _‘The Andrew Marr Show,’_ together and then because of that Mycroft ends up making another couple of phone calls. 

 

You head down to the Birmingham ICC and are there for the official opening of the conference at two. Mycroft’s in his same suit and you’re in a grey and white pinstripe jacket and trousers along with a white blouse. Mycroft has a quick meeting with the Brexit Secretary David Davis, before you attend Theresa May’s first speech at the conference on Britain’s exit from the European Union. Mycroft does another couple of phone calls, whilst you fetch him his afternoon coffee. It takes a moment to find him again through the throng, but when you do so it’s to see that he’s looking increasingly harried and raking his free hand through his hair as he talks. He almost snatches his coffee from you. Yet when you look at him with dark, reproachful eyes he finds enough common sense about him to mouth, ‘Thank you.’ You turn away looking pleased and Mycroft feels a quick spark of happiness that does not match up to the conversation that he’s currently having. 

 

“I'm going to have to meet with Johnson,” is the first thing that Mycroft says when he comes off the phone in reference to Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson, “Warn him not to insult other countries, before his speech and not to get too philosophical about Brexit.” He sips at his coffee in an irritated absent-minded fashion, before his eyes widen slightly and he rubs his lips together to assess the taste more. It seems to be warmer, nicer and more comforting than the usual ones that come out of the vending machine at these types of event. “Mm.” He drinks some more, growing increasingly mollified. “You found my favourite coffee?” He looks at you. 

 

“Just took a bit of magic sir,” you grin, feeling pleased that he’d noticed. That, along with the fact that he’d actually explained what was next on the agenda instead of just striding off and getting it done like he usually would are a vast improvement. Usually you’d be left to hurry after him and play catch-up. But underneath his curious gaze you come out of your thought, turn to your bag and open it to reveal that you’ve snuck the tub of special coffee beans that Mycroft had brought with him inside. “All I had to do was find a section that has tea and coffee making facilities and use the hot water there. I chucked the terrible coffee from the vending machine out.”

 

Mycroft looks at you and his face transforms so suddenly into a smile that it makes you blink and feel winded. You can’t know that he’s suddenly realized just how much you’ve come to know and understand him. Can’t know that its occurred to him that he should probably stop treating you so much as an inferior to him because you’ve had fourteen years to know him as well as he’d come to know you from that one first glance and you’ve obviously learnt a lot of things in that time. Not that you were exactly thick to begin with he thinks. You smile tentatively back at him. “I suppose I just thought that I should make even more of an effort in my last week sir. Go out on a good note and all that.” 

 

“Yes.” Mycroft’s face falls. He looks around. More than ever he does not want you to go-not just because of the inconvenience that it would cause him, but because you’re you. He does not know what to do about such a thing. 

 

“Johnson sir,” you remind him, sensing that his mood is turning more melancholy although you have no idea why. 

 

“Hm? Oh yes,” Mycroft says, coming out of his reverie. He looks back at you and drains his coffee. He’ll have to work out the problem of you later. “Come.” You follow him obediently through the crush of the crowd to find Johnson. Suddenly Mycroft turns back to you and you have to take a hurried step back to avoid crashing into him. “Have you got a means of recording on you?” he asks. 

 

You nod. “Yes sir.”

 

“Then please make sure that it’s on in a discreet fashion when we come across Johnson. I want every word I tell him to be caught. That way if he still says anything inappropriate I can nail him to the wall. May might be Prime Minister, but she needs her team under better control,” he says. 

 

“Of course sir,” you say seriously. 

 

Mycroft, looking happier, but still a bit troubled, turns around. “Slippery bastard,” he mutters, his mind on Johnson again. You smile. 

 

*

 

Once Johnson has been taken care of and the first day of conference has come to its natural end you take the suite key from Mycroft, so that you can go back to the hotel, whilst he goes out to have dinner wherever he should please and without you. Before you can turn around however, and full of a sudden idea, he grabs at your arm. You look back at him. 

 

“Let me take you out to dinner tonight,” he says. Your mouth gapes at him. “Think of it as an apology for the little misunderstanding that we shared yesterday.” He squeezes at your arm, before he lets go of it once more. 

 

You just stare at him for another moment, taking in all the strange things that have happened between you today and thinking that this is the one to top them all. Finally you get yourself together enough to say, “That’s unnecessary Sir. It’s already forgotten.” It isn't exactly, but again you just want to try and make it that way if you can. 

 

“Let me take you then, so that I can thank you for all your years of service,” Mycroft goes on persistently. Again you hesitate. “I'm trying to be nice,” he adds a little impatiently. 

 

Seeing that it’s something that he genuinely seems keen to do and that you’re not going to get away with not going you nod at him. Mycroft smiles and looks immediately more content. “Should I wear anything specific?” you ask tentatively. 

 

Mycroft shifts for a moment. “You've brought a dress?” he checks. 

 

“Yes,” you say a little guardedly. 

 

“Then wear it. I shall meet you back at the hotel.” 

 

You nod and cast him a bit of a smile, before you hurry off again. By the time you hear Mycroft returning you’re in the bathroom of the suite, inspecting yourself in the mirror that’s over the bath. You’re now in a long blue dress that has many silver crystals on it. Your hair is in a chignon and you’ve got ringlets hanging down by the side of your face. You've applied some red lipstick; blue eye shadow as well as a light blusher to your cheeks. Silver, triangular earrings hang down from your ears. You twist and turn this way and that, taking a deep breath and exiting the bathroom, before you make your way back to the bedroom again. 

 

When you get there it’s to see that Mycroft’s topless. You catch no more than a glimpse of his pale, freckled back, before you gasp, “Oh God,” and spin around. 

 

Mycroft tenses and quickly covers himself up with a white shirt, doing all the buttons up, before he turns to face you. He’s rather glad that you’re not facing him for he ends up doing a double take. The dress that you’re wearing is stunning, but more than that _you_ look beautiful in it. As he sees the back of your neck, the way that the dress helps to accentuate your curves and your shapely legs he thinks that there is no chance of him forgetting that you’re a woman tonight. He swallows and clears his throat. 

 

This sets you off to say, “Sorry sir. I forgot that you might be changing too.”

 

“That’s okay.” Mycroft shifts his position, grounding himself. He tugs the collar of his shirt down. “You can look now.”

 

Slowly you turn around, your hands going up to clasp in front of your chest as you do so. Your eyes scrutinize him just like he’s analysed you, taking in the smart dark trousers he’s already put on and the white shirt whose collar is a little twisted on one side. He must have tried to flatten it in a rush you think. Your hands fidget a little and you chew on your lip. You want to go over there and adjust it. But just as that thought pops into your head Mycroft turns to the side away from you, facing the jacket that is on the bed instead. Feeling suddenly worried you ask, “Is what I'm wearing too much sir? I can always go and change.”

 

Mycroft’s hands had been lifting the jacket up from the bed and curving it towards him, but now they stop. “No,” he says suddenly, letting go of the jacket again and turning towards you. “You look nice F/N.” A little _too_ nice actually, his mind adds. He chews on his lip. 

 

“Thank you sir.” You look at him uncertainly. When he swivels back to his jacket you go and take your pair of heels that match your dress out from where you’ve been keeping them at the bottom of the wardrobe. Mycroft turns his head a little so that he can partly watch you. When you glance with a quick frown to the bed and proceed to go to the side of the wardrobe, before you begin to lean against it with one hand and attempt to push your heels on he says, “Please, let me.” You straighten up. He comes to stand in front of you, looking at you both slightly seriously and pleadingly. The expression is rather foreign to you and it’s not until Mycroft indicates that you should put your heels down in the space that’s between you that you get what he wants you to do. Slowly you follow his gesture and then grip onto his shoulders, bunching his shirt in between your hands and almost making him wince as you step into your heels. You wriggle and push into them and it’s not until they’re finally in place that you release a small breath and look at him. Not until then that you realize just how close you are and that Mycroft’s eyes have dropped down to your lips. You exhale sharply, let go of him and hurriedly take a step back. 

 

“T-Thank you sir.”

 

Mycroft, afraid by what he’d just been tempted to do, but curious too, bows his head and moves to slip his jacket on. As if you’re doing a little dance you go back to the wardrobe, take your black shawl out and carefully place it around your shoulders. You’d been doing the act with such delicacy that it comes as a shock to you when Mycroft, too intrigued by everything to stop now, suddenly appears behind you. He slips his hands onto your shoulders. You jump against him. 

 

“Sorry. It’s just that I thought I told you not to call me ‘Sir,’ when we’re alone?”

 

“Sorry sir”- you hurriedly break off.

 

 _“Mycroft,”_ he ducks his head and whispers his name into your ear. Your hair flutters and your eyelids suddenly dip, before they right themselves again. 

 

 _“Hm?”_ you say, clutching at your shawl.

 

“Mycroft. That’s what you should call me. I think you’ve earned that right in fourteen years,” he smiles, reaches past you and opens the wardrobe door one handedly. His hand dips into it and plucks out a tie that matches your dress, curving it down off the hanger in a slow movement that leaves your eyes fascinated. 

 

You can feel his body pressing against yours as he does all of this and you swallow and move off to the side, away from him. Your heart’s suddenly racing and you don’t understand why? Why every light touch from Mycroft and his current closeness has left you feeling breathless, tingly and oddly cold? Why the fact that he’d been looking at your lips seems to matter so much? His eyes might have just landed there. He probably hadn’t even been-

 

“Shall we?” Mycroft asks. You start out of your thought and look at him to see that his appearance is every inch the dapper gentleman, his collar now having been corrected because of him having fixed his tie. A dark blue pocket-handkerchief lies in his breast pocket. You nod and he offers you his arm as he comes to stand level with you in a smart fashion. You put your hand gingerly on the crook of it and let out another breath. Your eyes go up to Mycroft’s and you feel a little thrown off guard when you catch sight of something softer in his eyes, before he hurriedly covers it up again. Could Mycroft have been thinking about kissing you after all? You turn around together and pick up Mycroft’s umbrella and your blue handbag, before you leave the suite. You wonder as you stand in the lift whether he’d really been about to bring his lips down to yours and wonder what you would have done if he had? Your mind goes back to how you’d found yourself admiring his arm that morning and to the strong feelings that have been surging inside you ever since the hotel problem had occured as well as how your heart had started to beat all oddly just now at his every touch and when you’d been so close. A strange thought occurs to you. Could you be in love with your boss? Is that why you’d stared at him in the way you had this morning? Is that why you’d felt so upset after he’d accused you of being responsible for that mistake yesterday? Upset about him not trusting you? You look at him with your eyes narrowed, close to a squint. “Is everything all right?” he asks just as the lift doors slide open. 

 

“Mm? Oh yeah,” you say, before you lead the way out of the hotel. Your heart’s racing. You can’t be in love with him. But it would be so typical if you are you think when you’ve only yesterday broken off your ties with him through getting annoyed. So typical if you realized you were falling now when you’re days away from leaving him. You feel suddenly emotional. 

 

“You know,” Mycroft says conversationally as he catches up with you, “If I'm going to try and be polite then you should probably listen.” It’s a twist on what you’d told him just this morning and you can’t help but smile. Yet as soon as you feel a fluttering inside you, you try and push it back down again. You do accept his arm though when he offers it to you. 

 

“Where are we going?” you ask, still feeling a little confused about everything. 

 

“There’s an Indian down the street. I made a reservation for us on the way back to the hotel. They could accommodate us, which was good because it comes highly recommended,” Mycroft replies. 

 

“Lucky for you then that I like Indian,” you murmur without being able to help it and your head instantly wonders what you’re doing. Did you just flirt with your boss? Your heart gives a little leap like it doesn’t seem to care. 

 

“Lucky that I could already tell such a thing from reading you,” Mycroft quips just as fast.

 

You let out a bit of a laugh. “What else can you tell?” 

 

“Why don’t you pretend that, that’s the exception?” Mycroft says, pulling his arm gently away from you as you come to a stop outside the restaurant and gesturing that you should be the first to enter it. 

 

“But it’s not,” you say over your shoulder as you do so, and although your nose picks up on the exotic spicy scent of the place you barely pay any attention to that or to the circular tables that are bedecked in long, white tablecloths. 

 

“No, but for tonight I want to dismiss all of that and get to know you in the normal way”-

 

“You’re going to ask me a bunch of questions that you already know the answers to?” you ask him with a bit of a laugh as he joins you by the podium, so that you can wait to be seated. Mycroft’s hand curls automatically around your waist and you feel that fluttering again. 

 

“No, I'm going to ask you the questions that I should have asked you right from the start to make you feel included,” Mycroft says just as an Asian man with thinning dark hair and a wispy moustache in a dark waistcoat, white shirt and black trousers comes to join you. “I believe that there should be a reservation for us under the name of ‘Holmes?’” Mycroft tells the man. 

 

The man checks the list upon the podium, makes a little mark against the name and nods. “Please, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes follow me.” He turns again. 

 

Your mouth opens at the mistake, but Mycroft nudges at your side with his and increases the pressure upon your waist. You look at him. “It doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head discreetly. “Besides, F/N Holmes. It doesn’t sound that bad does it?” He guides you after the man, but seeing that you look a little nonplussed by what he’s just said-he can’t know that your mind is reciting the name over and over again-he swiftly adds, “Of course I dare say that it won’t be a patch on the name you’ll have, should you choose to take it, once you get married.”

 

You still feel stunned, but like you definitely know now that you like him far more than you should, _and,_ not feeling comfortable talking to him about such things you say, _“Oh.”_ You shrug your shoulders, trying to not show him how uneasy you are. “I’ve probably missed that ship.” You look around, before you get yourself together enough to look back and say, “Still, I suppose that I could be Mrs. Holmes for this evening. You've made me act enough in my role. I dare say that one more time won’t hurt.” You try and smile bravely at him but inside your heart is breaking for you have enough common sense to know that even if, Mycroft had, for one moment felt tempted to kiss you then he’d never feel as strongly about you as you now realize you do about him. 

 

“I'm honoured that you’d take up the role so willingly,” Mycroft says, feeling partly satisfied by the response and partly awkward because he senses that there’s something deeper going on with you right now and he can’t tell what. He just hopes that you’re not feeling angry with him or with your job for denying you the chance to have gotten married previously. He pulls your purple seat out for you as you reach the middle table that you’ve been led to in an attempt to try and appease you if that is the line of thought that you’re meandering down. You sit there gratefully and he takes his place opposite. Your menus arrive a moment later, but it’s not until you’ve ordered, your meals have arrived and you’re a little way through them that the conversation finally gets back to what it had been about when you’d first entered the restaurant. 

 

“What you said before,” you say, taking a break from your curry, “About asking me the things that you should have?” Mycroft looks at you. “That’s nice and all, but don’t you think that it’s a rather pointless thing to be doing now? You might as well just use this experience with me as a learning one and use it to get to know your next assistant better instead.” You feel gloomy, your mind having gone from Mycroft not feeling the same to the prospect of leaving him again and you now find that you don’t like the thought of another woman doing all the things that you do for him. Fetching him his coffee. Bringing him the best red velvet cake that you can find on all his bad days. Being a constant level of support. You poke at your rice moodily with your spoon. You wish you hadn’t realized how you feel for him. Things had been so much easier before. 

 

Mycroft feels angry at your words, angry that you’d probably been unhappy with him earlier after all, and, after looking down, he tears a chunk off his Naan bread. “Would you consider yourself a failed experiment then?” He shoves the bread inside his mouth and chews on it as he looks at you. 

 

“Perhaps,” you shrug, feeling a little taken aback by the sudden energy that you can feel radiating off him. You turn your attention back to your curry. You slide some more of it up with your spoon and blow on it, before you eat your next mouthful. 

 

Mycroft takes a sip of his red wine and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he watches you. He lowers his glass back to the table. “Then I feel sorry for that, for the fact that you don’t ever feel like you’ll get married and for the clear way that you don’t understand that I have always held you in high regard.” You stare at him, before you look down again. Your heart skips a beat. “Do you really think that anyone would have lasted fourteen years in my employment if I did not think them worthy?” he asks you in a rumbling tone. You feel touched at his fervent manner, but like you don’t know what to say. You just carry on eating for a little while. Mycroft does so too, but it’s not long before he’s looking up at you and saying, “You don’t have to go.” You look at him, swallowing again as you realize that you’ve been secretly hoping for these words. “What happened between us yesterday was unfortunate and I realize that, that misunderstanding made all your other…irritations come out, but I am trying now and willing to try still after what you have told me. Must you leave?” You duck your head. Your eyes skitter across the table. “Just know,” Mycroft says with some weight behind his tone and you look up at him again, “That you don’t have to. Not on my account anyway. I would not mind so terribly if you changed your mind.” He offers you a bit of an awkward smile then. “It would mean that I wouldn't have to go through the trouble of finding anyone else after all.” He waves a hand. 

 

Your eyes go down again and you can’t help but feel disappointed that, that’s all he wants you to stay for. As you’re reminded that he’ll never feel the same and you’ll probably be left clinging onto pointless hope if you stay you look back at him and ask, “It wouldn't be very professional of me though would it? To change my mind now?”

 

“Well,” Mycroft says, meeting your eyes again, “Just know that I wouldn't mind if you were to do so. Why don’t you take the rest of the week to think about it?”

 

“But if you need to find someone?” You look at him searchingly as he stares into his curry, sensing that there’s something more that he’s not touching on. 

 

You can’t know that as much as he’s feeling he’s made progress with you in being honest he’s also thinking that he hasn’t made enough and expressed to you just how much he truly doesn’t want you to go. Expressed to you what he’d been tempted to do earlier. He wonders for one wild moment if he should. But common sense quickly catches up with him. For to tell you now when you probably don’t feel the same and when you’re on the verge of leaving his employment would make him look weak. Something he can’t even contemplate. “Just take some time,” he informs you, before he hurriedly starts to eat again as a loud and somewhat panicked voice in his head yells at him that he’s just ruined everything. 

 

You go back to eating too and the conversation is a little stilted and forced for the rest of the meal. That’s when it happens at all. You turn the option of pudding down, finish off your wine, and then, once Mycroft’s paid, you head back to the hotel together. 

 

“Thank you for the meal… _Mycroft,”_ you tell him once you’re in the lift, concentrating on saying his actual name.

 

He looks at you calculatingly for a moment. “It was my pleasure,” he says, before you both turn to face the front again. 

 

Once you get back to the suite you carry out the same routine as what you’d done the previous night with Mycroft using the bathroom first and then you. 

 

Yet that night, once you’re both lying in bed with the pillows keeping you apart once more, instead of a distinct awkwardness and a fear to move there’s a feeling of sadness between you. 

 

A battle goes on in your head. Once more you’re not sure what to do. Should you stay with him? After all he’s trying and if he’s already said that you could-? But part of you thinks that you should stick to your decision. You’d said that you were going to leave Mycroft at the end of the week so you should go through with it. At the end of the day how long will Mycroft making an effort really last? For it’s one thing for him to do such a thing now, when you’re away from London and have been forced together. But what will happen when you return to the capital and work gets even busier? Surely Mycroft will go back to treating you the way that he’s always done? Snapping at you and demanding that you bring him this or that without a ‘Please’ or ‘Thank you’ in sight? Even if he doesn’t want to it might just happen automatically. _Besides,_ your thoughts continue, this is more than just about Mycroft making an effort. It’s about you actually having some sort of a life that doesn’t include him and about you not having to suffer the daily heartbreak that would surely ensue if you stayed. If you left you could try and repair the bonds with your family and perhaps get some friends, maybe even a partner. But you can’t deny that after tonight you’re going to miss Mycroft. For fourteen years you’ve seen him more on a day-to-day basis than anyone else, but its been in the past twenty-four hours that you feel like you’ve managed to push through his cold, work exterior and find something more to the man. Not to mention realize the true extent of your feelings for him. An ache builds its way up inside you and when it reaches its peak you roll around and shuffle closer to the pillow wall. You feel suddenly like crying. 

 

As Mycroft rolls around too and moves across, so that if it weren’t for the pillows then you’d be together, facing one another in the middle, he thinks that he doesn’t know how he’s ever going to get anyone who could possibly replace you. 

 

*

 

When Mycroft awakes that morning it is to a suddenness, which he doesn’t understand the reason of until he opens his eyes, discovers himself on his back and turns his head to see that you-still in sleep’s tender grasp-have managed to bat one of the pillows off the wall and send it hurtling onto his chest. He makes to pluck it off him, but when you suddenly throw yourself over the remaining pillow, before you wrap an arm partly around both the pillow and him he freezes. You let out an incoherent gurgle, before you shift closer to him. You push your nose against his arm and wriggle against him, lifting one of your legs up and resting it in between his, brushing it back and for. _Christ._ Mycroft’s heart slams repeatedly against his chest. He screws his eyes shut. He can feel his body awakening and he does not want it to. He wishes that you’d just move back again. He can smell you and feel the warmth of your skin with only the thin fabric of your pyjamas and his grey t-shirt and boxer shorts separating it from his. Feel your breasts pushing into his side. _God_ he has to stop this. He cannot think of such things. You’re his employee. You’re leaving him at the end of the week. He forces his eyes open and tilts his chin down so that he can look at you. He practically gets a mouthful of your hair as he does so and he shifts ever so slightly. Your eyes are shut and you couldn't be any closer to him. You look content, happy. But you can’t stay like that. His body is not obeying him and getting in line with his mind and he can barely keep that under control either. No, he has to force himself from you somehow or he’ll end up doing something, which you’ll no doubt think very inappropriate. He weighs up his options. He doesn’t really want to wake you and make you aware of what you’ve just done. He’s sure that you’ll be horrendously embarrassed by it all, but that really would be the simplest of options. “F/N?” he attempts hoarsely, but you’re dead to the world. You stroke at the pillow once and raise your knee up higher, coming into contact with his sensitive member, which is forming a tent inside his boxer shorts. Mycroft lets out a hiss and closes his eyes again. For a moment he just lies there with his increased heartbeat and rapidly clenching hands. He curses you inwardly for putting him through this. Curses his brother too for starting off this whole thing. He’d been perfectly fine until then. Fine and oblivious. You’d just been a robot, not who you are now. He comes to his senses and opens his eyes. Once more he thinks of what his next action should be. He lightly tweaks at the corner of the pillow and sends you rolling off him and back to your side again. You mumble a bit in protest, before you settle back down, none the wiser to it all. Letting out breath after breath in relief Mycroft hurriedly gets out of bed, re-constructs the pillow wall and moves as fast as he can to the bathroom. There he shuts himself inside, leans heavily against the door, whilst he breathes heavily and thinks that it might be better if you _do_ leave him after all. But that thought only lasts a mere moment, before that sad feeling rises up inside him again. He knows that having a relationship with you would complicate his life, knows that his growing feelings for you are already doing such a thing, but his body and God damn it his mind wants you now and he must not let you resign. Whether you feel the same or not he has to keep that chance. 

 

*

 

When you awake you have no re-collection of what you’d done to Mycroft and so you spend a lot of the day wondering why he seems even more thoughtful and intense than usual and about the odd little glances that he keeps sending you. Is he wondering whether you’ll say that you don’t want to resign? But there’s something else that you sense is more than that. Something you’ve never seen before on his face. You’d almost call it desperation if it weren’t for the fact that you doubt Mycroft ever feels such a thing. Perhaps for his brother. But since Sherlock’s not here now then it can’t be that you reason. 

 

That night you suggest that perhaps you should just have one level of pillows between you. You make out that it’s because you’re afraid of them falling on either of you in the middle of the night, but really it’s because you’d like to keep more of an eye on him. You suspect that he’ll probably guess that the reason you’re saying isn't the real one. You hadn’t said anything about it the previous night after all, but to his credit he does go along with it. He looks suddenly awkward though, even swinging upward from where he’s already in bed, and that makes you ask, “Is everything all right?”

 

He doesn’t automatically respond. You stare at him. His cheeks, to your surprise, suddenly take on some colour-a faint shade of pink. You've never seen that before either, but it makes his face look nicer somehow. _Warmer._ That fluttering feeling returns inside you. He looks away again, before he looks back at you. “I was rather hoping not to have to make you aware of this,” he says, “But considering what you’ve just brought up”-he waves a hand-“You toppled one of the pillows this morning, and, for a brief moment until I could free myself you took it upon yourself to give one of the pillows and I a hug.”

 

“Oh God. Did I really?” You flush, the colour going straight to your face, and it’s _you,_ Mycroft notices who looks nicer now. “I'm so, so sorry. In that case then perhaps we better”- you thwack the pillow you’ve just lifted back on top of the wall. For God’s sake you can’t even be in a safe position and not make things worse when you sleep! You have to leave. 

 

 _“No,”_ Mycroft mutters, his hand going to your wrist. “Let it stay off.”

 

You inhale sharply at his touch and then for the first time you become properly aware of the fact that he’s seeing you in your grey and white pyjamas and you’re seeing him in his grey t-shirt, which his chest hair sticks out the top of. You swallow. “We promised each other that we wouldn't look,” you tell him uncertainly. 

 

“Yes, we did didn't we?” Mycroft comments, his tone conversational as well as being low and seductive. “But since we've broken that now”- his eyes dip down to your chest as he lets go of you. 

 

You swallow, hurriedly take a step back from him and fold your arms across your chest. You get the sense that he had wanted to kiss you yesterday in the hotel after all and you’re not sure what to make of it. All you know is that your thoughts seem jumbled inside your head and only one, which you’d rather stayed down, keeps bobbing to the surface. What _would_ it be like to kiss Mycroft? Could you really try it? Get to know the answer to that at least, before you left? “Well, anyway.” You shrug, trying to get that thought away from you again and get your heart under control. It’s acting ridiculous at the moment. Of course you can’t just kiss Mycroft now, that would only lead you to wanting more probably and he may have wanted to kiss you yesterday, but he doesn’t feel the same, he _can’t._ People call him the Iceman for God’s sake. He doesn’t feel things like that. Not just for you, but for anyone. “I guess that what happened this morning explains why you’ve been looking at me so oddly all day,” you hurriedly add to try and excuse your long silence when you realize that he’s still looking at you. 

 

“It was partly because of that,” Mycroft acknowledges, meeting your eyes again and you feel a shiver run down you, “But partly too because I’ve been wondering how I might be able to persuade you to stay in my employment?” Your mouth opens. “Let me take you out again tomorrow. The Symphony Hall is just across the street. It would be a shame not to make use of it. A quick phone call and I'm sure that I’d be able to obtain tickets for whatever performance they've got on.” You look at him with a tilted head as you chew on your lip. “You can call it another overdue thank you from me if you still decide to leave,” he tells you. You nod and take the pillow away, so that there’ll just be one level of them and not two between you. Mycroft smiles and you slip into bed, your brain still trying to combat the stupidity of your heart. 

 

“Night,” you say as you switch off the light. 

 

“Goodnight F/N,” Mycroft murmurs, feeling tentative and knowing that tomorrow, what with it being the last full day of conference and your last night together that he has to do something definite to change your mind. After the conference ends on Wednesday morning you’ll both be travelling back to London and he’s sure that if your heart’s still fixed on leaving by then that you will and it will be too late to change it. 

 

He feels more encouraged when he hears you say, “I guess what I'm wondering is will you still treat me like I matter when we go back to London?” For he can sense that you’re slowly getting more torn about the issue. Whilst he knows that you want him to believe that you’ve said such a thing in your sleep, but the carefully structured question tells him that it’s one you’ve come up with consciously. 

 

Wanting to reassure you though and give you what you want he says, “I will do my best to,” and you smile. Mycroft can’t see it, but he can sense it and that’s enough, for now at least. 

 

*

 

“Did you ever wonder why my brother chose to make it so that we’d have to share a room?” Mycroft asks you when you’re both sitting in the Hall that following night, looking down upon the vast orchestra as they play the most beautiful pieces of classical music. Mycroft’s in a bow-tie and tails and you’re in a glittery silver dress with your h/c hair in a ponytail that swoops over one shoulder. It’s a little cold there, despite the warmth of everyone’s bodies. At least that’s what you’ve both told yourselves to excuse the fact that you're sitting close together. Mycroft places a delicate hand upon your knee and you hurriedly tear your eyes away from the musicians to look at him. 

 

“You said that it was because he was bored,” you remind him. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes glitter against yours. “Has no other reason ever occurred to you?” he asks. 

 

You hesitate a moment. Sensing it’s time to be brave you venture carefully, “I suppose if I were to think of such a thing properly”-Mycroft’s hand tightens upon your knee encouragingly-“Then the most obvious thing for me to conclude would be that he wants us to be together.”

 

“No,” Mycroft says, and your face hardens with an anxiety that you’ve just overstepped and been foolish until he strokes at your hand, sending sparks across it and says, “The most obvious thing to deduce would be that he wanted to embarrass me.” You smile. “But”-his hand stills and so does your breath-“I tend to agree with you and think that what you’ve just said would probably have been his main goal.” You swallow a little and nod, trying to remain casual even though your heart rate has increased tenfold and the energy between you seems to have grown consideringly more interesting. As bizarre as it may be you’re starting to get increasingly more confident that you of all people might have affected the Iceman after all. 

 

You don’t know what to do next though and so you look away and watch the music again. Mycroft gives your skin a little press, before he lets go of you. 

 

It’s not until you’re both back at the hotel and you’re moving towards the bed in your pyjamas as Mycroft sits up with his back against the headboard, watching you, that he says, “So?” You stop and look at him. “Why do you think that my brother decided to try and push us together if he could?” he asks.

 

“I don’t know,” you say with a false innocence that makes Mycroft’s lip quirk upward. He knows that you’ve cottoned on to his feelings right now and he gets the sense from how you’re acting that you don’t mind. Just to further encourage him you pad across and flip the duvet back. You sit down and twist your head around to look at him. “But I'm sure that you’re about to tell me.”

 

Mycroft smiles. “Well,” he says, moving to sit on his knees, so that he can face you now across the wall of pillows. You turn around properly and do the same to him. When he places an experimental hand on top of the wall and looks at you imploringly you cautiously place yours there too, close to his but not touching. He takes it and strokes it, cradling it with care. You let out a breath. “Perhaps it’s because Sherlock recognized the fact that you don’t need to leave this job in order to get a relationship because for fourteen years now you’ve been cultivating one with me. You know me more thoroughly than anyone else does. You have seen me in every mood and put up with them all. I know that its taken me this long to realize just how much you mean to me, but now that I have I want you to know that I will do my best to treat you in the way that you should have always been treated and to serve you as well as you have always served me.” You open your mouth. “That is of course if you should stay with me. In my employment.” You close your mouth and swallow. “Forgive me. I am being delicate when I say that. For the truth is that you were right. I could not manage without you.” You look down, your eyes grazing against the pillows, not knowing what to make of his words. You’d felt like something was on the cusp of changing between you, but the fact that he’s making it about you working for him again is confusing you. Have you been misreading everything? Should you have been less confident after all? “Perhaps I should be less delicate then?” Mycroft says softly, tilting your chin up and your breath catches in your throat as his blue eyes meet your e/c ones. His lips are on yours in the next moment. His hand slides up to grasp at your cheek and you let out a breath as yours go up to cling onto his shoulders. His other hand goes to your back, pushing you closer. A vibration of love like the strings that had been plucked in the orchestra that night grows between you as you kiss him back and things grow more passionate between you. His hands go to your waist, and then, together, whilst you both hold onto each other still with one hand you go on to remove the wall from between you forever.


End file.
